


Downcast Hours

by carolinecrane



Category: D3: The Mighty Ducks (1996), Mighty Ducks (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinecrane/pseuds/carolinecrane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friend in need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downcast Hours

"Ow! Son of a…would you be careful?"

"God, you're such a crybaby," Fulton said, but he dropped Portman as carefully as he could onto his bed. "You act like it's the first time you've ever been checked."

"Easy for you to say," Portman grumbled, arranging himself carefully on his stomach. "You're not the one they scraped off the ice. And did you see the size of that guy? He was bigger than both of us. I'm surprised I can walk."

Fulton stopped listening halfway through 'you're not the one they scraped off the ice', ignoring Portman's complaining while he pulled his boots off and found a reasonably clean glass. He ducked out of the room while Portman was still complaining, stopping in the bathroom long enough to fill the glass with cool water and carry it back to their room. When he got there Portman's eyes were closed, but as soon as Fulton stopped next to his bed they opened again.

"Nice. See if I listen to you the next time you're moaning about your sore shoulder."

"Shut up and take these," Fulton said, holding out a couple painkillers until Portman shifted enough to hold out a hand. Once he'd swallowed the pills Fulton handed him the water, waiting until Portman swallowed half of it before he took the glass and set it down on Portman's desk. "You want anything else?"

"Why, are you leaving again?"

Fulton rolled his eyes, thankful that Portman was on his stomach so he couldn't see Fulton grin. "No, idiot. I just thought you might want to get some sleep."

"How am I supposed to sleep? It feels like my knee's on fire."

He knew Portman wasn't exaggerating – Fulton had seen him go down when that goon slammed him into the boards. He'd seen the stick make contact with Portman's kneecap, and he knew how terrified Portman must have been when he hit the ice that he'd never play hockey again. Blowing out his knee meant losing his scholarship, which meant being sent back to Chicago, and that meant…but Fulton wasn't thinking about that, because the x-rays showed that nothing was permanently damaged, and they hadn't even made Portman stay overnight.

Fulton reached for a pillow from his own bed before he turned back to Portman, sitting on the edge of his bed and resting one hand on the back of his knee. "Lift up," he said, fingers sliding along Portman's sweatpants to lift his injured leg enough to push the pillow under it.

Once Portman was settled again Fulton let his hand rest against Portman's back, thumb moving absently against a cotton Motorhead t-shirt. "Better?"

"Mmm," Portman murmured, face buried in his own pillow and for a second Fulton thought he might actually be falling asleep. "Fucking shoulders hurt."

He'd landed hard on the ice, catching the worst of the blow with his shoulders, and Coach Orion had said he'd probably be sore for awhile. Fulton knew if the school had a whirlpool that would help the stiffness in his muscles, but even though it was a private high school, it was still just a high school. He knew one other thing that might make Portman feel better, though, so he slid his hand down the other boy's back until he reached the hem of his shirt.

He pushed the fabric up Portman's back, hands sliding along warm skin until he reached Portman's shoulder blades. His hands were big – strong and calloused from a thousand workouts without gloves, and when Portman groaned at the first press of Fulton's hands he thought maybe he was making things worse. "You want me to stop?"

"Fuck…no," Portman moaned, arching up a little into Fulton's hands. "Feels good."

They'd been playing hockey together for almost three years now, counting their summer at the Goodwill Games, and since Portman showed up at Eden Hall they'd been pretty much inseparable. Everybody on campus thought of them as The Bash Brothers – a single entity, and that was just fine with Fulton. It seemed to be pretty much fine with Portman too, because he didn't seem to be interested in hanging out with anybody else. There was the rest of the team, sure, but there were never any girls and Fulton couldn't help wondering what that was about.

Because Portman could have pretty much any girl he wanted – Fulton saw the way they looked at him even when he wasn't on the ice, but if Portman noticed he didn't seem to care. Fulton was pretty sure he could have his choice of the girls in their class too, but he was only interested in one person, and Portman definitely wasn't a girl. He was Fulton's best friend, though, his partner in crime and no matter how much Fulton wanted him, he wouldn't risk their friendship by telling Portman how he felt.

Sometimes he wondered if Portman already knew. Like now, because Fulton's hands were moving on Portman's skin and Portman didn't seem to think anything of it. He seemed like he was enjoying it, at least if his groans and the way he shifted into Fulton's touch were any indication. It wasn't the most he'd ever seen of Portman, but it was the first time he'd ever really touched, and it was tempting to lean over and kiss all that golden skin just to see what it would feel like against his lips.

As soon as the thought occurred to him Portman pushed back against his hands, and Fulton froze when he heard the other boy murmur a vague 'hang on a second'. He expected Portman to tell him to stop, maybe to tell him to keep his hands to himself, but all he did was shift carefully onto his side, favoring his injured knee while he struggled to get his shirt off.

Fulton reached out without thinking, helping Portman get the shirt over his head and dropping it on the floor. When he looked up again Portman was looking at him, propped up on one elbow and watching Fulton like he was trying to figure something out. His stomach fluttered with a sudden rush of nerves, and suddenly he wished he had left Portman alone to sleep through the worst of the pain.

He'd spent hours waiting and worrying for Portman to get back from the hospital; now that he was back and safe Fulton didn't want to leave him alone, but maybe that would have been the smart thing to do. It probably would have saved him some embarrassment, anyway, because he could feel his skin flushing under Portman's gaze and when he started to stand up a hand closed around his wrist to hold him in place.

"How long you been thinking about getting me out of my clothes?"

"Fuck you, Portman," Fulton said, mouth twisting into a scowl because he might be pathetic, but he wasn't going to sit there and take it while Portman made fun of him.

"It was just a joke, man. Relax," Portman said, voice low and soothing and his fingers were still wrapped around Fulton's wrist. That felt way too good, and Fulton blushed even harder at the reminder of just how easy he really was. He wanted…everything, things he wasn't even sure were possible, but so far all he'd gotten was a hand on his wrist and a stupid joke, and he had no idea if it meant anything or if Portman was just being an asshole.

"I think you should get some sleep or something," Fulton said, voice rough and eyes carefully focused on the pillow just above Portman's head.

A tug on his wrist, and Fulton looked up sharply to catch Portman still watching him. He placed Fulton's hand on the center of his chest, holding it there for a second before he let go. "I think you should stop thinking and keep doing what you were doing."

Only this wasn't what he'd been doing, and Fulton wasn't sure what Portman was asking for. He was still watching Fulton, shifting carefully until he was flat on his back with his bad knee propped up on Fulton's pillow. And Fulton knew he shouldn't look, but he found his gaze wandering anyway, down Portman's chest and lower, to the obvious bulge in Portman's sweatpants. His breath caught in his throat and he caught himself just before he licked his lips, flushing all over again at his own reaction to the fact that Portman was turned on.

Turned on by _Fulton_ , by his touch and even if it was just an automatic response, Portman didn't seem to have any problem letting Fulton know. In fact, he seemed to be waiting for Fulton to do something about it, and before he knew it Fulton's hand was inching a little lower on Portman's chest. He stopped when his fingers slid through the patch of hair on Portman's stomach, his own cock stirring in suddenly tight jeans.

He knew he should say something, find out if this was just convenience or if Portman wanted _him_. Because if they did this and it turned out Portman wasn't interested Fulton wasn't sure how he'd get through the rest of hockey season, let alone the school year.

"What about your knee?" That wasn't even close to what he'd meant to ask, and when Portman laughed he found himself wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

"Don't worry about it," Portman answered, voice thick with something Fulton couldn't name and then Portman's hand was on his again, holding him in place like he thought maybe Fulton was going to try to get away. "You ever done this before?"

"No," Fulton answered. It was a stupid question, because they were together practically all the time and if he'd done it with anyone Portman would know about it. Except that there were whole summers spent apart, and suddenly Fulton wondered who Portman had been doing this with. "Have you?"

Portman shook his head, and a wave of relief flooded Fulton as Portman pushed their hands a little lower. He was so busy being grateful that Portman didn't have some other guy stashed away back in Chicago that he didn't even notice how low their hands had gotten, and when he realized where his hand was resting he gasped. He braced himself for another laugh, but instead he got a moan, Portman's hips thrusting up a little against his palm and just like that he was giving his first hand job.

He'd jerked himself off enough times to know how it worked, but it was different doing it with someone else. The angle was different, for one thing, and he couldn't get the right grip through Portman's clothes. Then there was the way Portman kept thrusting up into his touch like he wanted more, teeth gritted every time and Fulton was sure he was hurting his knee every time he moved. Part of him wanted to stop, but he was supposed to be taking care of Portman and he couldn't let him keep hurting himself. So he took a deep breath, ignoring the way his stomach fluttered as he let go of Portman and reached for his sweatpants.

"Hold still," he said, one hand on Portman's hip to hold him down and the other sliding under his waistband. He pushed the material down slowly, catching his breath at the first sight of Portman's cock. His cock twitched at the thought of Portman going commando, and he knew he was going to wonder every time he saw Portman for the rest of his life whether or not he was wearing underwear. Then again, maybe he'd get a chance to find out, because Portman was moaning and pushing up against his hand, murmuring his name under his breath and that gave Fulton the confidence he needed to close his hand around someone else's erection for the first time.

It was a little awkward, a little too dry and it took him a few tries to find a rhythm. His own cock was painfully hard, aching with the need to be touched and he wanted to reach down and stroke himself in time to Portman's thrusts. But both his hands were occupied, and Portman was gripping the sheet hard, eyes closed and head tossing back and forth against the pillow. It was the hottest thing Fulton had ever seen, different than anything he'd ever pictured when he'd let himself picture this, and a thousand times better than anything he could have come up with.

Then Portman moaned again, low and broken and his whole body tensed under Fulton's hands. He came hard, wet heat hitting Fulton's fingers and Portman's chest and then _that_ was the hottest thing he'd ever seen. It made him want to do things he wasn't sure he was allowed to do, like lean over and lick Portman's stomach clean. Or lean up and press their lips together, tongue in Portman's mouth to taste him while Fulton jerked himself off.

But he still wasn't sure what they were doing, if this was the start of something that had been building for a long time or if this was just some twisted way of helping Portman relax. So he waited until Portman stopped shaking before he let go, wiping his hand on his jeans and wondering if he should get up and go take care of his own hard-on or if he was supposed to say something. He couldn't wait forever, though, and he was still so hard he thought he might burst if he didn't do _something_.

As soon as he thought it Portman's eyes opened, glazed and darker than ever and Fulton's heart actually skipped a beat. His _heart_ , and he really was in way over his head, because if this was just a one-time thing he was going to have to drop out of school and go back to Stillwater. He could feel the panic settling in, making his hands shake and he was planning the quickest escape route when a hand closed around the front of his shirt.

"Jesus, Fulton," Portman muttered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he pulled Fulton close, "help me out here. I'm injured, remember?"

It took a second or two for Fulton to figure out exactly what Portman wanted, but when he did his heart skipped another beat, and he wondered if it was possible for someone to die of anticipation. It felt like he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment, thinking about it and dreaming up all the ways it could go and he really should have been prepared. Only fantasy didn't have a single thing in common with reality, and when Portman leaned up a little and pressed their lips together it was nothing like Fulton had imagined.

It was messy and awkward and all clashing teeth and desperation, and it was more perfect than Fulton ever could have imagined. His whole body vibrated with the need for more, and it took him a few seconds to realize that he was humming against Portman's mouth. A low murmur, chanting over and over and he wasn't even saying actual words, but somehow Portman got it anyway.

A hand pushed between them, fumbling with Fulton's jeans until he got them open, then Portman's hand was pushing denim and cotton down until he had enough room to pull Fulton's cock free. He knew he wasn't going to last long, not with Portman's tongue in his mouth and his thumb sliding across the tip of Fulton's cock with each slow stroke.

His hips were moving of their own accord, thrusting into Portman's grip and it felt more incredible than any of the times he'd done this to himself. It didn't make sense, because the angle was weird and Portman wasn't doing anything Fulton hadn't done for himself, but it was still someone else's hand – _Portman's_ hand – and that thought was all it took to send Fulton over the edge. He came gasping, mouth open against Portman's and just _breathing_ as he came on Portman's stomach.

It took a few moments for Fulton to catch his breath, slipping out of Portman's grip as he straightened up to look down at the mess on Portman's stomach. He tugged his own t-shirt over his head and wiped it up as best he could, taking his time because he knew as soon as he was finished he was going to have to look at Portman again. But he couldn't avoid it forever, and finally he forced himself to look up long enough to find Portman watching him.

"How's your knee?" he asked, blushing at the sound of his own voice.

Portman smirked at the question, hand still resting on Fulton's thigh and just the gentle pressure was enough to make Fulton want to start all over again. "It's okay now that the pills are starting to kick in. The doctor said I should probably try to stay off it this weekend, though."

"Yeah?" Fulton answered, raising an eyebrow at Portman's expression. "So I guess you'll be pretty bored stuck in bed for two days."

"Not if you're around to entertain me," Portman said, and when he grinned this time it was warm and lazy and affectionate. Fulton's heart skipped another beat as he let Portman pull him down for another kiss, bare skin sliding together and he was starting to be glad Portman had been hurt after all.


End file.
